


Mistress in Green

by HelpingHanikan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: A lot of people are bros, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gen, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Thor is a bro, i made up a lot of stuff, the warriors three are bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-11-24 19:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20912651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelpingHanikan/pseuds/HelpingHanikan
Summary: Being the lover to someone above your station is one thing, marrying another above the first's station is a whole other.





	1. Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write something like this for a while.  
Also, I've been to one wedding when I was little and don't remember anything. This just means everything I either got from the internet or just made up. Have fun

Weight from that helmet forces Loki’s back into a straight line. Body moving on a swivel; his entire torso moving to look around the room. He’s gripping the soul out of his staff, as though it will keep him steady.

He wasn’t the only one; throughout the entire throne room there was the constant underlined noise of shifting metal and scratching fabric. Thor was still running his hands over the chain mail on his forearms, stroking it like a cat. Sif was straining her head forward and scratching the small bit of neck her new armor touched.

Although they all had some say in the design Loki could only blame himself for the helmet. Several nights he had pressed against your back on the drawing table. Whispering in your ear for the shoulders to be “bigger”, for the horns to be pointed. The word _shiny _was even thrown in there once or twice. The end result was a helm sure to leave an apple side knot in his neck.

All-father Odin looks side to side, completely turning his head to see on his bad side. You’d have to thank them all later for standing tall and proud to show off your hard work.

“You’ve never disappointed me.” He says after a second of admiration. “Your years spent with the dwarves of Nidavellir has made your time and effort invaluable.”

Years was an understatement. A few hundred years of your teenage life were spent in front of a forge, neck constantly straining upwards towards teachers almost a mile above you. In truth, you were an investment that was finally flourishing. Daughter to a smaller noble who was more than willing to ship their barely blossomed daughter to another realm.

From your place on one knee before the throne you feel the force of his staff hitting the ground. All-father Odin stands and speaks your name, “A new age has come, a new day has dawn, and you will rise with it.”

Your promotion was much smaller than, say, a coronation. No massive crowds, word of your new status would be spread after, there would still be drinks. That would be more intimate between your friends, but just as loud.

“Do you pledge your services to the throne?” All-father Odin asks.

“I do,” You say. In your fantasies your voice was stronger and much more confident.

“Do you pledge your armor, to be worn in peace. And your weapons to be used in war?” He asks.

“I swear them,” It’s hard to keep your face towards the All-father and to not look left. Not to search out your prince.

“And, do you swear, to deny any influence from outside your throne?” He asks.

“I swear,” This last one was a whisper.

_This is it_

“Then stand. Rise as the Master of arms for Asgard and all her warriors.”

The world is different as you rise to your feet. Having gone with a gown with a plated breast. Fabric a dark copper, an apple engraved on your sternum on the metal plate. Your family’s symbol and color. A small reminder that Asgard was your home although you may have been raised an outsider.

Although the audience was small their applause was massive. Warriors, brothers and sisters in all but blood so proud in their cheers and shouts of your name. Thor was easily the loudest; raising his arm in your name followed by, “yes!”. Loki the quietest but he clapped along with the others. He had _that _smile when you made eye contact. A soft smirk that turns into a full-blown grin, teeth and all, when your own smile couldn’t be contained by any measure. Your moment of glory belonged to all of Asgard, a victory without the battle.

All-Father Odin allows for the cheering to continue as it died out on its own. Your entourage ready to move onto the obligatory drinks, just waiting for the big boss to release them.

“Another thing, a gift to match your new status.” All-Father Odin finally says.

Asgardian men and their gifts. There wasn’t a day that goes by when the ladies of the court wouldn’t get together and show off their newest item. Necklaces and dresses, a few daggers and small shields strapped to their sides and hips. Frigga was always the one to beat; not because her gifts were so much better but because she had mastered the show off. Never noticing that she was holding her new ring just so again her face, or just happen to have thrown on her newest dress All-Father had given in their private times.

Your bragging was just as subtle; anything left in your room when your prince leaves finds their way onto your clothing. Smaller things than the expected loud and proud items. Broaches and earrings, one or more hair needles and pins. All with smallest color of green or a L somewhere you’d have to look hard to find.

“My son, my eldest, Thor.” All-Father Odin says, unsure if it was an order or just an acknowledgement. “Asgard heir, one who will need a Queen to help him rule when my Queen passes.”

The already quiet room had become dead at his suggestion. For the first time the entire ceremony you made eye contact with your _other _prince. Thor looked just as taken aback as you were.

“I am…incredibly honored.” The safest thing for you to say in that moment.

“Father, you have many years left.” Thor adds in, stepping from his place to be beside you. “Many years, there is no need for-.”

“You are no longer a boy, Thor.” Odin focuses on you. “And she is no longer a child. No better woman to be named the Queen’s heir then who stands before me. Your own heirs would be needed along the way.”

_Children, with Thor_

“But my forge, the armory and all the smiths. Doing this with children…” You say.

“Since when has children stopped women from doing their duties?” Queen Frigga says from the left side of her king. She seemed to be more amused then insulted by your insinuation.

“You will both be wed,” All-father Odin says in that voice that tells you the conversation is over. “For the good of Asgard, for the good of yourselves.”

\------

There was a time that it couldn’t be certain whether you loved or hated your prince Loki. Before leaving for the Dwarves you were just one of the children being raised on the castle grounds. This was before things like status and class were a thing you worried about. Back then Loki was just a stupid head that needed to eat dirt.

Thor, Sif and the others weren’t as fun to wrestle with. They were all born warriors with iron in their blood and fire in their eyes. Sif was actually your first kiss after she had chased you through the grounds and pinned you on the ground. Promptly pressing dirt into your face after the peck was put to you lips and you screamed about whatever make up disease was created in that moment of attack.

Loki was another story, not that you were both in the same playing field, but that he deserved it. One moment you’re eating and the next your hair is tied to the back of the chair or whatever sort of pen was being used for your lesson was suddenly a worm. All followed by a small laugh that sent you both running through the halls.

It’s hard to say when the wrestling changed. Somewhere around the teenage years before you left: a hand placed somewhere that wasn’t removed, kisses that weren’t fought against nearly as hard. It wasn’t until you returned from Nidavellir that the wrestling moved to a more private place.

Because of this it wasn’t that hard to find him.

“Are you still pouting?” A rude question to ask upon entering his room.

Somewhere cups and glasses were being raised and hit together in both yours and Thor’s name. Most of those celebrating were strangers, and people who you would only somewhat recognize. But who wouldn’t want to take this opportunity to brag that they knew, even if a little bit, the future queen of Asgard?

“I do not pout, I am not pouting.” Loki said, stepping past you to grab the bedroom door, closing it all the way.

“I’m not happy either,” You say, stepping forward.

It might have been out of habit but you’re already reaching around your sides. Pulling at the knots tied under your armpits and hips holding the breast place in position. A borrowed handmaid had helped you put the dress on. Her much smaller, much more practiced hands had made the knots into perfect little knots that wouldn’t be seen.

Also, out of habit, probably, Loki walked up behind you. Not so gently pushing your hands away, taking your wrist and pulling it upwards. The metal on fabric made a soft shuffling sound as he worked on the little knots keeping you back.

“It was why he sent you away, so you’d be ready for Thor when the time came.” Loki finishes on your dominate side. Taking one to two steps to the other side and pulling your other arm above your head.

“I didn’t got to some wives school,” He finishes on the other side. Both your arms pressing against the front of the breast plate to keep it from falling and crashing to the floor. Instead setting it down gently on a dresser next to the mirror. “Loki, I’m the smith. I’m the thrones smith and not some spoiled eldest daughter.”

There comes a point when you’re just lecturing to make yourself feel better. You both had reached that point before coming into this room.

In the few minutes of silent it was his turn to be mostly undressed. Flicking your hand for him to turn around. Taking the cape, pulling and unclipping straps going down his back. By the time his own breast plate was removed and placed away he had his own gauntlets off.

“No, that will be my wife.” He takes a seat on the bed.

It’s easy stepping down into a kneel in front of him. Dress skirt protecting your knees from the marble floor. Top of the dress wasn’t meant to be worn without a breast plate. Without that necessary piece it left very little to the imagination, not that you allowed him to stare for too long. Placing either hand on his knees to stare into his face.

You’ve never truly committed to each other. Never said aloud you were each other’s lover or gave any intention of courting. Loki was your prince, and therefore so far above your stationed you’d have to look up at him. That you’d be marrying above him was something you wouldn’t have thought.

His hand in your hair was a caress. His fingers curling and gripping, pulling you forward against his lap, was a grip.

“I won’t let this change anything, we are still each other’s, you are still mine. You are. Yes?” He’s self-assured at the beginning of his statement, keeping you close against his lap. His voice slightly faltering towards the end. Tilting his head down to find your eyes.

Your yes came as a kiss. Pushing past the grip in your hair to press lips against lips. His hands taking their appropriate place holding your face.

The kiss doesn’t go any deeper then where a moan could take you. His thumbs lining your cheek bones. Fingers curling into the jaw. Another small kiss over the perfect lips, testing to make sure you didn’t pull away. Dominate thumb rubbing at the corner of your too perfect lips.

It’s simple enough to open your mouth and let his thumb in.

Loki has these eyes made to be looked into. It’s too easy to say one could get lost in them. They were the deepest part of a lake, the want to journey inside them. Find the secrets they hold and keep them for yourself is too powerful. If it weren’t for his thumb dragging along the bottom row of your teeth, you’d be searching them forever. A gentle, barely there, nip to his digit and he pulls away.

It’s just as easy to find the gap between his shirt and pants. It’s a small tickle on the pale skin just below his bellybutton. Pressing over the mile of legs to kiss the skin you found for yourself.

His fingers through your hair is so much kinder this time around. Dull nails gently scratching your scalp, doing the bare minimum to guide you against his lap. In the quiet of the room the shuffling of his pants is almost too loud.

The underclothes were a simple matter. Loose enough to be pulled at the same pace as his pants. More kisses, the easiest part, little pecks on the junction between thighs and pelvis. Acting as though your singular goal wasn’t being slowly freed by the pulled pants inch by inch.

Any slow stripping was thrown out the window when he’s finally freed. Still, it was ignored in exchange for more kisses. Tip of his member ghosted over just briefly, hot breath over skin. Just to be taken for a kiss just below the naval. Teeth, gentle scrapping over skin found to be more ticklish then pleasure.

He’s not good with being teased. His eyebrows nit and his lips suck in. A feeble attempt at trying to hide what you were doing to him. Long ago he had learned it’s better to not complain about your actions, unless he wanted it to be worse. Instead just sucking it up and accepting whatever little punishment you decided to dish out because of his pouting.

Punishments and teasing never last long when he looks down at you. He’d never outwardly beg. Maybe ask politely or plead in a situation, but he’d never outwardly beg. Not that he has to, his face is enough of a begging without having to speak.

Spit gathered in your mouth, sliding over his head after a quick kiss. The sound that comes from him sounds something guttural. From somewhere deep in his throat that that might have also come in moments of pain.

His bed made a soft _puff_ noise. Loki falling backwards dramatically against the bed like he was wounded. Hands grabbing your hair as though you just might leave him hanging there, just as another act of vengeance.

There would be some light-colored bruises from your grip. Both hands pressing over the top of his thighs, a balancing act to keep from chocking on the new angle. Focusing on the task at hand, your head up and down, instead of staring up towards your man.

The next noise that comes from him might actually be from pain. All balance pushed on your non-dominate hand, the other taking over the part of him that couldn’t be taken in. Sliding spit and pre-cum which had escaped from your hand to below the length. Gentle rubbing over his balls, a soft grip that has his feet scrapping for traction

It’s amazing the difference between public and closed doors. The younger prince acting as a decoration, staying quiet and looking pretty in the background. More then once he was a decoration that was off balance, occasionally breaking something when the peace seems to be too much. Behind the closed doors any kept in sound is released, gasping and giving little orders that you only sometimes choose to follow.

“Slow, slower, please…” His long fingers are grabbing at your hair. Pulling them upwards to bring you closer, as if your skills were based on how tight he gripped your hair. “Good, thank you, good. Oh.”

Several strands of hair is absolutely ripped from your head at the height of his climax. A slightly tighter squeeze on his balls, moving with the rocking hips to stay in time with the rolling hips.

It’s a good thing not a lot of make up was worn that day. No matter how much ‘practice’ you’ve had on your man, there was still a mess on the corners of your lips. An almost pathetic attempt at wiping away his mess from your mouth. Wiping from the back of your hand, leaning over the bed as though he was hiding from you.

The thick comforter dips further as you crawl over. Sitting up on your knees to look down at the sated pile of Asgardian royalty you had made. Your turn to place a hand in his hair, a gesture he leans into before opening those eyes.

“Nothing is going to change.” You say. Taste of him still on your cheeks and tongue.

He’s lost any sort of threatening power while looking into your face. Searching for any sign of the lie you just had to be saying. His eyes are soft, as are his lips. Closing and swallowing as a way of saying that he believed everything you said. Even if it would be a lie in the long run.


	2. get the braids right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are certain traditions that come before the vows.

Supposedly the forge wouldn’t cause a sunburn. Although, based on the fine layer of sweat covering most of your body, your eyebrows are going to be slightly singed. The only part that wasn’t wet had to be your hands closest to the forge. Wearing gloves that can only be described as magic, they weren’t even toasty.

It was supposed to be a family sword you’d exchange. A fake raid made on your families crypt to find the greatest warrior’s blade. You’d walk out from the stone and dirt carrying the rusted thing under a blanket, no one would see it until the wedding day. No one else in your family had reached this status. You never weld a sword or fought in a real battle. You were never a warrior, but you were the greatest.

Days following your promotion became both busy yet incredibly simple. Your men and ladies given direction and sent on their way:

“Make sure the guards have sharpened spears and tell them to stop poking everything.”

“Anyone with less than a years’ experience has to have padded weapons,”

“Thank you, thank you for the congratulations now go do your jobs.”

Your designs now meant more then ever before. Men and women not so subtly leaning over your shoulder to get a look. Finishing each piece one at a time and sending them out to be created by your people. A nice pile of blue prints left int eh center for any to look at and give their opinions on.

Leaving the blue prints for the sword out was a dumb thing to do. It just so happened that a little section of the forgery was curtained off. You would have your own space anyway, why not make it now? That there’s sample metal and an outline for varying sizes means nothing.

Your men and women are laughing and talking like children beyond your curtain. Hushing eachother when your shadow turns towards them. Some part of them probably thought your hammering was enough to drown out their laughing.

Asgardians never need a reason to throw a celebration. Stopping for a drink on a regular Tuesday night and the next thing you’re swept up in a rowdy group. Men and women that suddenly storm the doors after a new son or daughter or a “yes” to a proposal. You’d have to really work to escape the wave taking everyone into its heart.

Now take an event that has an actual reason, and everything is revved to eleven. Bridal mead was being made, a good gap would be in the live stock to make enough food and there was a constant argument about where the ceremony would actually be held. The assumed place would be in the castle. With all the guests (I.E all of Asgard) that would be unlikely. Possibly on the rainbow bridge, it was big enough and it was pretty enough. Not that your opinion mattered, this was a wedding for Asgard, not you.

Most that you’ve done for the wedding is write letters and make this sword.

You were even kept out of the actual date. Not knowing when it was going to take place before Lady Sif catches you one morning.

Morning might have been a stretch; the moon wasn’t even gone from the sky yet. Sending white sheet light from the window over the floor your walk across. It was likely you had a little spy in your smithy. Someone you once called loyal spreading word that the sword was finished just the other day.

Lady Sif was the one sent to “retrieve” you. Someone you considered a friend commit the slightest betrayal with her smile. The ‘I’m sorry about this but I’m trying to sugar coat it’ smile.

“A man shouldn’t be in here right now.” One of the several ladies said.

She says this in a whisper, as if the smaller room didn’t carry voices like the wind. She wasn’t even whispering this to you, leaning over your back and talking to another lady on the other side.

He wasn’t technically inside the room. Just standing outside the door, leaning against the wall, book in hand. Through the mirror you could see the book and his hand. The angle hiding the rest of him, although the ladies could obviously tell who it was.

“This is no place for him, can we ask him to leave?” The other lady asked, agreeing with her friend.

They were both whispering over your back. Two other ladies were nodding in the background, all this shown in the mirror. Loki’s book and stance in the hallway never changed, he was frozen, he was listening.

It took a few of them to get the dress right. Thick white and cream fabric, skirt so long and fluffed it hid the pedestal you stood on. Sleeves were just as long, hiding your hands and the heaviest part. It took two of the ladies to get the knots right, more complicated the better for a event like this.

It began to be slightly painful towards the hour mark. Ladies doing their best to hurry as an absolutely army of voices and laughs could be heard through the castle. More likely then not they had volunteered to help you dress and were now regretting it. Being able to brag that you dressed the future Queen would mean nothing if you there’s no one to brag to. The lady behind you taking her anger out on the strings, ripping the air from your lungs with each pull.

“Don’t fidget and it won’t loosen.” The lady behind you. This blonde-haired eldest daughter who probably could have been in your place had things been different. “The knots need to be right or everything will just fall apart.”

It seemed to be her final plan. This incredibly childish idea that if the knots were tight enough then the dress couldn’t be removed and then the marriage would be voided. The childish idea that that was how wedding nights worked.

“How long will the hair take?” The youngest of the women asks somewhere behind you.

“If we’re quick enough it should only take a few minutes. Tie some ribbons, little braids and-.” It’s amazing the vanity mirror didn’t shatter at her scream. Top of the wooden hitting the ground lost underfoot when she backs up.

It’s a chaos of fabric and running ladies. The first setting off the others, a mother’s instinct takes control. Grabbing the youngest’s arm and pushing her from the room first. Others following at the bright scales that slide from the wooden box. Snakes were nothing new on Asgard, darker the colors the safer they are. Bright red and green would be raw poison in a living creature.

Worst part of the entire situation was how they just left you. As pretty as the dress was, it wasn’t made for combat or for any type of survival. Best it would do is act as camouflage in a snow storm.

“They won’t come back for you,” He’s in the same formal armor as he was before. Leaving the helmet behind and walking much easier. “But that can be punished later.”

“Are they real?” You ask, taking his outstretched hand, stepping down from the podium.

“No, just a bit of fun before the big event.” He says, lifting the bright green and yellow ribbon for emphasis. “I refuse to let them destroy the hair, sit down.”

Hair was one, if not the, most important part of the bride’s aspect of the wedding. Usually an intimate ceremony between the bride, closets friends and family. Rest of your family either couldn’t or wouldn’t make it, any friends you had were more suited in a smith then around a vanity and a hair brush.

Whether your hair was long, short or even bald, something had to be done to your head. Loki, both your savior and new hairdresser, runs a dominate hand through the hair. Catching on a few knots, touching and playing with whatever curls might be there. His head tilts side to side during the exploration. Watching him through the mirror was the only thing to do. His head tilting side to side, moving locks out of the way of your ears and neck. Seeing how they look and putting them back in its natural place.

Flashbacks to being braided to a chair rushes from its hiding place. He’d be staring at you through the mirror if he went to that. Staring to make sure you didn’t realize the prank he would be trying to pull for the literal thousandths time. Instead he continues to stare at your hair, braiding and any tugs that come are accidental.

Looking down from the mirror doesn’t give any respite. Multi-colored ribbons just slightly out of sorts from wiggling around the box. They had stopped being snakes just before you sat down. One green and yellow dotted lays half way out from the box. You’ve never been bitten by one of his pranks, but it’s a wonder if it’s poison or not.

It felt like only a few minutes, when likely it took almost an hour. Long stems slide across your scalp. The end bent and turned upwards to hold on the small braids. Copper colored daisies rounding into a tiara, leaning forward towards the mirror and the details are minimal. Most import was etched in the highest petal; two curved horns curving with the petals tilting back. They matched his helm through the years, even into adulthood and now.

“Don’t shake your head too much,” He says.

With the hair done he traces your ears with soft touches. Barely any contact on the shell, a little more pressure massaging the lobes. One small strand on either side gently touched, as if an excuse to trace over your jaw.

“Then they can just follow the flowers to find me,” You say, head turning side to side.

“I will track you down myself if you do that.” It’s a warning but said with a joke. Kneeling next to the chair and turning your head towards him. A firm grip on your jaw to stay still.

Any make up was light; a little eyeshadow and bright pink blush. Lip stick was red, rusted, like dried blood. Other weddings it would have been pink, like the blush, childish. Usually the make up is done to give an illusion of innocents families prioritized. Like said before, you weren’t a regular bride.

He’s as focused on the make up as he was on your hair. You weren’t a person anymore, you were a canvas. A canvas he wanted to touch, a gentle thumb smudging the pink blush.

He doesn’t want to ruin your make up. Grabbing your hand, kissing the pulse point as though he was burning without it’s contact.

“How much time…” Kisses on the wrist are rapid. Your other hand cupping his cheek, he kisses that one too. “How much do we have?” You ask, breathless from your hands alone.

“Not enough, hush now.” He says. Gently, perfectly gently, sliding the shoulder sleeve to the side.

Over the few months between the engagement and this day Loki had been lost in fantasy. It was a juvenile fantasy, taking a ‘rivals’ bride on the day of their wedding. Laying awake in bed, visions of smeared lipstick and rolled back eyes going straight towards his groin. In those fantasies the dress was simpler, undergarments the regular cotton instead of leggings and straps. Not that it deterred his wondering hand.

The shoulder was the second safest place next to the hands. Some cover with foundation and a pulled-up sleeve would hide any evidence. It was also the most annoying in a confined dress, where the bodice was refusing to budge and any loose enough fabric presses into your throat.

That stupid bodice was too thick to get a real hold of your breasts. His hand covering the mound, dull nails digging into the fabric keeping him from the prize.

Cheers are started from the hallway, a sudden slam of noise that can only say the groom had made an appearance. He’d get slaps on the back and be presented with the family sword in preparation for the final ceremony. First time you see him that day will be at the end of the isle.

“Loki, Loki I have to get ready.” You say. Your hand over his, prying the desperate man from your breast. “My prince,” his teeth leave a ring around your shoulder, excited kisses turning into bites you hadn’t even noticed. “We’re not that rude.”

Going to your husband with another man’s bite marks is one thing. Going to a newly wed bed with another man running down your thighs is a whole other.

It’s a long walk down the aisle. Starting by yourself outside the throne room, a guard on either side for both decoration and security.

Only a lucky few hundred citizens got to see you. Several waking before dawn to see the black smith bride dressed up like the other nobles. Left, right and behind the people waved and tried to make eye contact. Getting back the genuine smile you could match giving to the best of friends.

The aisle ended at the same spot your promotion took place. Your Queen Frigga stands at the very end before the throne. She and All-father Odin stood side by side in front of the throne, even so, All-father might as well be a decoration. Marriage was Frigga’s area, she was the guide for couples moving forward together. It’s honestly hurt a little that her proud smile was given to every couple and not just her son and his wife.

Thor stood a step down from his parents. Leaving any form of armor away, instead in a cream-colored tunic, dark brown belt and similar colored boots thick enough to make sound when they walk.

On either side of the stairs there was a decoration of formal dressed guards. Standing tall with a spear pointed towards the ceiling. The last few days suddenly made sense with all the recent calls for new guard uniforms. Had you known you were helping with the decor of the wedding there would have been more white involved.

Closer to the throne the smaller the crowd became. Nobles and the rich pushed or bribed their way into the best spots. The rest filled by the common who cared more about the Forge Queen then how their dirt was ruining the ends of some gown. There was some murmurs and a few bits of applause somewhere deep in the crowd. A little boy and girl each sit on their father’s shoulders. Hanging onto his head and waving aggressively when you made eye contact.

Now, standing face-to-face, you see the details of Thor. It’s a safe bet to say that his hair had more braids then yours. Pulled back into a pony tail, a red ribbon hanging onto his shoulders, maybe starting with a bow that was corrected so he wouldn’t come off as so feminine.

The entire world goes silent when Asgard’s mother raises her arms.

“Thank you, thank you all for coming to this day.” She says, holding her hands together against her front. “This day will be no more important then anyone else’s. Begin by joining the families and bring the couple together. Continue with the exchange of the family’s swords.”

Another murmur goes through the crowd when you unsheathe your “family” sword. Sounds of awe going through the crowd at the craftsmanship, the perfect light hitting off the virgin metal. Yet anther little fact to send the tongues wagging, this one for the men.

Unlike you Thor had an armies worth of ancestors to pick their weapon from. That Odin had preselected a weapon for each of his children’s wedding day would be no one’s surprise. Any children you had with Thor would likely give their future partner the spear Odin currently grips. 

Thor’s weapon was handed to him by his father himself, who was handed to him by an assistant smaller then any other person on the stairs. Their sword couldn’t be held by the handle, instead with both hands holding it gently. It’s blade was rusted to the point of the smallest holes showing in what should be the thickest part of the metal. It’s a fifty-fifty guess whether the color and damage came from bad maintenance or left-over blood.

Red sprinkles touched on your skirt when you took the blade. Holding it out with both hands in the same delicate way the last three men had. A maid was waiting behind you, her arms out in the same position, taking it with her head bowed.

She’d wrap and package the weapon, try and keep it from any more damage from the outside world. It was still up in the air where you’d send it after all this was over. Either back toy our blood family who was no doubt gushing about their little girl or to the dwarves who had helped create the woman in white that stands today.

Between the light clapping that always followed the first bit you both joined hands. Thor looked down at your hands, thumb gently rubbing over yours. Looking up for the briefest of seconds and you grab his eye. Giving a slight look, as though to say, ‘can you believe this?’. He smiles back, before turning to look back to his mother.

“-is a wonderful event, one that should never be squandered, for any reason.” Was that a side eye Queen Frigga just gave? Had you been paying attention maybe you would have known.

It’s never the actual ceremony that anybody cares about. After the exchange of weapons everybody is just waiting for the short speech to finish, the couple to kiss and then the race towards the reception. Slowest family has to serve the fastest, it’s gonna be a quiet a shock when they realize there is only one contestant.

Queen Frigga’s speech goes on for about fifteen minutes at the most. Mentions of dedication and royal duty expected on the couple. It’s more business then love like the others she had done. A hint of sympathy coming from somewhere in the speech the rest of the crowd wouldn’t have noticed. She looks to you when it finally comes to an end.

She says your name with the newest title, another slight murmur of appreciation goes through the crowd. “Do you swear to stand by your husband? That the bond may be upheld as priority as your other duties?” She asks.

“I will.” You swore, that you didn’t kneel out of habit was miracle.

“Prince Thor Odinson, do you swear to honor your wife? That she may come to no harm and that be upheld as any of your other duties?” She asks, one of the few recent times she could look down to her eldest son.

Being royalty came with many privileges. The privilege of marriage for love wasn’t on that list. The ceremony was different for a wedding for love, more about dedication and maintaining the love then about the duties and honor. Very few of these happen, and even less in front of such a massive crowd. For a wedding of this caliber it’s assumed you’d learn to love one another and keep fingers crossed that the marriage becomes more then that of duty.

“I will.” Thor finally says, looking up from your hands.

“Then you may come together.” She says this with an open gesture.

The crowd had been silently building since the beginning of the wedding. Completely exploding the closer your faces got. When the kiss finally came there was nothing but applause and cheer. All of that background noise to the tickle of the beard and the cupping of your face by massive hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, got it from the internet or just made it up.


	3. Honey Mead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for the reception, and a drink you'll never want to have again.

Technically Thor was your first kiss. Way back when kisses were a weapon, he used that to his advantage. You had called him some great offense and he had chased you through the garden. Lady Sif only laughed when you had screamed.

Now, it was different. Now it was like kissing your brother.

But kisses were demanded by the people. Whenever you got within a few feet of eachother mugs were banged and glasses were clinked until you met in a kiss. Only to be pulled away for another dance or round of congratulations seconds after.

Through the streets celebrations are being held in the new couple’s name. Looking out from the thin windows covering the extent of the dinning hall and there’s freckles lights throughout the view. The laughing and loud talks all around you could both be from the room or could be coming in from the air down below.

Over thirty people have touched you this night alone. People you knew and people you didn’t, all trying to get your attention with a grab to the arm. Most were lucky enough to gently touch your forearm or side to get your attention. More then a few grabbed right onto your shoulders. Too excited women grabbing both sides, accidentally pressing into the circled bruises hiding under the fabric.

It was usually Sif or one of the other warriors who did the grabbing. Appearing by your side, quick to save you from an overbearing lady or an awkward question you wouldn’t be ready for.

“I’m sorry to steal her away, my Lady. But the bride has others to talk to.” It was Hogun this time who acted as your savor. Standing just enough between you and the lady that she went silent at his presence. He even handing a goblet that you easily took.

The lady forces a smile. “We’ll catch up later,” she says, probably disappointed that her gossip wouldn’t add how many children you were planning to have in the next year or five.

“Thank you, Hogun, I don’t know how much longer I would’ve last.” You say, goblet brought to your lips.

More honey-based mead. This had been the only thing you’ve been able to drink since the start of the reception. The horn of mead thrust in your arms before you even got through the door. Both you and Thor brought to the front of the banquet table, serving your husband the horn before getting it back after a toast to his father. The mead was actually sweet and good at the first serving, come the fourth and it’s nothing but sugared bile at the back of your throat.

“Patience is something we’ll all need, especially you.” He says, looking to Thor on the other side of the hall.

It’s amazingly selfish that you hadn’t even thought about Thor. Out of tradition you and Thor would not be allowed to be alone together, you both took this as a sign to avoid eachother. Nodding in one another’s direction and then scurrying away.

Thor never gave the impression he ever cared about marriage, he certainly cared about women. It was a constant flirtation-ship he had with almost every woman he met. Those he hadn’t grown up with were all fair game for little looks and small sweet kisses on the cheeks and knuckles. This time around everyone not coming in for a manly gesture was kept at arm’s length. Sending a quick glance your way when a woman got too close.

“May I have a turn stealing her away?” This one was Fandral coming into the scene.

Fandral truly knew how to live up to his Dashing name. A slight bow with an outstretched hand towards you, the universal sign of ‘may I have this dance?’

“Unless Hogun wants to first?” You ask, teasing towards the man with the Grim title.

He didn’t answer but gave you a look. A small giggle coming out as you take Fandral’s hand.

The dance floor was just before the banquet hall. Any who enters the reception late would be greeted by dancing and twirling dresses. This made it a sight to behold but it also meant those who enter have to walk to the side walls to get past the dance floor.

Room was made for you and Fandral to enter the dance floor. Taking position with his hand in yours and the other on your hip. Your arms mirrored his, hand on his shoulder, staring forward into his chest. The chest plate you had made, he had made alterations without consulting you. Shining the metal, nicking the edges into a whole weapon on his chest.

“Careful, my lady, you’re a married woman now.” He jokes.

“Did you mess with my armor?” You ask, in a joking way, staring up to his pressed lips.

It didn’t matter that the armor was gifted to others or made for the guards. It also meant nothing that they were currently wearing the pieces. You created them, birthed them and owned them. They were yours.

“It was dulled,” He argued, stepping forward for you to step back.

“It’s been a maybe a month,” His excuse makes you smile.

“It’s was still dull,” He says, trying to sound like a parent scolding his child. Instead coming out more as the child in that scenario.

There was some sort of meeting between Lady Sif and the warriors three before the wedding. All four would play goalie between you and the ladies, Hogun would take the lead with his name sake sending them away. Hogun and Lady Sif would watch your back, keeping the younger men from doing the expected pranks. Last Fandral would take the lead of the dancing, keeping a strong arm around your back. Twirling away from any man or woman who even looked like they might interrupt.

_‘There wasn’t a man who didn’t try to touch,’ _Queen Frigga said when she invited you for tea. _‘none did, though. There’d be a lot less hands if they had.’_

All four seemed to be working for both you and Thor. Lady Sif, although not nearly as good as a dancer, acted as his bumper on the dance floor. She looked at her feet more then to Thor, he looked to be saying something. Probably making small jokes at her too small steps that she rebuttals with an equally joking insult.

Fandral was slacking in his job. When you reach the edge of the floor fingers gently touch between your shoulder blades.

You should have seen the helmet during one of the many spins. Neither he nor you said anything. Fandral relinquishing his responsibility as you turn into Loki’s arms. Stepping back as he stepped forward, his hand at the small of your back instinctual gripping the fabric in case you fall back.

“You do look beautiful.” He says, walking you both to the center of the floor.

“Really? I haven’t heard that yet,” You say with a giggle, the honey mead doing it’s work. “You look pretty too, why hide that from me all night? Not having more _fun, _are you?”

His grip loosens and slides the entire arm around your back. Holding you close, cool metal against your head and lips by the ear. “I’ve just been listening, dear, I swear. You have been a busy woman.”

“Forge doesn’t run by itself,” You say, stepping forward, taking him back to the tighter circle of dancers.

“It would appear you are both pregnant and blackmailing the throne.” He makes a tsk noise against your ear. “What do you have against us, I wonder?”

“Maybe that I deflowered the youngest prince?”

It was as though the band heard the whisper and decided that this was the time to stop. Music slowing down until it was completely gone, long enough for the couples to clear the dance floor.

Keeping your hand aloft, Prince Loki walked you off the floor. The smile he was trying to suppress snuck back onto his face. Probably proud that you had slapped back with such a great comeback.

The smile started to leave as the people turned their focus onto you. It was gone completely when Prince Thor steps up next to you, arm already positioned out for you to take. Still holding the youngest prince’s hand when you took the eldest, his head turning away and walking back into the crowd. His hand is replaced with another cup of the honey mead.

* * *

“Yes, Yes, thank you…” You say, doing the best possible to wave away the servants who led you to the Spouse’s sweet. Closing the heavy door behind you.

Another stupid tradition had the more curious of the party guests hang around the room door. Pressing their ears against it, whispering to eachother, maybe silently cheering on any noise that came through the thick wood. The drunker of the guests would be more vocal, going so far as to bang on the door with tips or excitement.

Obviously, your party was bigger and better then most. Shouting and tips about a pillow under your lower back were already being called out. With a closed fist Thor, _your _Thor, slammed the door. A loud scuffle came from the other side, followed by feet and your husband standing up straight.

Neither of you talked after the hallway had gotten quiet. The sweet is, as the title says, very sweet. Decorated in warm browns and reds; fur carpets, blankets, and animal heads on the walls. The head of a massive Elk stared down at you from over the fireplace, it kept staring as you took a seat in front of the flames.

The sweet’s entire design was made to bring whatever new couple back in time. Back to when the hunter would bring their partner some great beasts pelt or head as a gift. The animal would be cleaned and served at their wedding dinner. Pelt then laid out over the marriage bed before the consummation.

That Elk has seen some serious shit.

A heavy _thunk _of a flagon ends your staring contest with the dead. Pulled from somewhere it was put on the small table between the two chairs.

“Please, no…” The honey smell haven’t even reached your nose and you’re already begging to make it stop.

“I will take it all myself then,” Thor says, pouring and the smell of ale coming instead of Honey and too much sweetness.

“No, never mind,” Your mug was waiting on the edge for your outreaching hands. A long drink to get rid of the bile and everything is right in the world. “Oh, bless you.”

Silence returns while you both lay back into the chairs. That elk glaring down at the both of you, being reminded of the hunter who killed him, and the partner who gushed over his corpse.

It took a minute before the ale and mead came together in your brain. “Did we dance at all together?” You finally ask.

Thor pauses with his mug against lips. Staring straight forward as though the mantle would tell him the answer.

“I honestly don’t know, did we?” He asks, like you hadn’t just asked the same question.

“I’m not sure, it’ll be part of the rumor mill. We’ll find out.” You say, mug now empty. “Did you know I’m black mailing the crown?”

“No way, did you know I impregnated you?” He asks.

“Yes actually, must have been all that hand holding.” Your mug was filled again.

Silence returns as the joke leaves an after taste. An heir wouldn’t be expected so soon, not with the All Father still able to stand. But it was still assumed that the moment the room’s door closed the clothes came off.

“It will so funny when the child comes with black hair.” Thor laughs into his mug.

It took you longer then it should have to catch on.

“Thor, I’m not actually pregnant.”

“Are you sure?”

Waving your mug for emphasis, taking a giant drink. “Pretty sure.”

“Great, it’ll be like making love to my little sister.” He finishes his mug at the thought, filling it and starting again before you start.

“I’m older then you by,” You should have stopped drinking a few minutes ago. It, again, taking you longer then it should have to find the answer. “By a lot. _You’re_ more like my little brother.”

“Yeah, but, I’m taller. And I’m bigger so…”

“That’s not- What?”

“I’m bigger. I, mean, my arms. I’m the big brother.”

“No.”

The argument would eventually end. Only when all the alcohol was gone and so was your conciseness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty lame, but it's just a segway.


	4. Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mead has been drank and slept off. Lets see whose awake after that.

The windows are tinted, so it wasn’t the harsh light of day waking you up at least. Instead the thunder of an Asgardian level hangover pounding on your temples.

It was Thor’s chest you had fallen asleep on. Amazing your cheek could be peeled off from the bare chest with all the drool. The pillow under Thor’s head getting the same treatment from the man still sleeping.

It’s rude to say but there’s a moment of panic when all your senses came back. Sitting up straight, slapping over the bodice. Reaching behind and finding the knots still perfectly tied in their little bows. The same was said for your skirt, no rips or even attempts at it’s removal. Even the stockings were still in their place. Only thing that appeared to be missing were your shoes.

It seemed that the Lady’s plan to tie the knots too tight worked.

Head throbbing you’re reaching behind yourself. Touching and pulling at the knots like a blind man.

Looking at the mirror was also a bad idea. Staring at your makeup smeared face, drool smeared with the faint lipstick and eye crust still living in the corners. At least the braids were still mostly intact, strands of hair free bouncing around your head with every little move.

Even with the view of your back the knots would not come undone. Pulling on the strings with fingers was just painful. The skirt was attached to your bodice, a full body restraint in white.

“Fuck,” Was only one of many colorful words you used in your search. For a culture created from war and battles, there didn’t seem to be a single knife in the room. Or anything sharp.

The option of waking Thor absolutely crossed your mind at more then one point. Somewhere between riffling through the drawers and checking under the bed. He had been sleeping through the entire search. Mixing of drinks and too much at that had hit him harder then you. Trusting a half-awake, probably still tipsy, man with a knife against your back probably wasn’t a good idea.

With the windows tinted it was hard to tell what time it was. Probably between the outrageously and just really early morning hour. Long before anyone would be expected to come from their rooms. The maids and staff would either be just getting up or were busy with breakfast, it’s when the meal is served that the room would be cleaned.

Inside every wardrobe there would be cloaks for any size and sleeping clothes that could afit anyone. The cloak you grabbed randomly was made for someone half a foot taller then you. This made it perfect as it changed you into a walking black mass of fabric with a head on top. Hiding the white dress that should be in tatters on the bedroom floor, you quietly leave the room. Pressing lips together while looking back at Thor.

Hundreds of years ago it was a little game to walk through these halls as a teenager in the dark of the night. Wearing whatever dark clothes that could be found in the dresser. Pressing against walls and leaning into shadows to hide from guards who would only have stopped you with a quick question but would surely let you pass.

It was the maids, or worse, the nannies that would have stopped the adventure. Although you weren’t their ward, they’d demand to know why you were out f bed, where you thought you were going and what knee you be put over if you didn’t return to your room at once. Giving very little as an answer and pretending to stomp back where you came from was usually enough to throw them off your tail.

You’re following the steps of your younger self this morning. Although there would be little more then a few second take looks instead of a scolding. Pressing against the wall by the thickest pillar, waiting for guards to past, would be habit you would never forget.

Just like before you danced a little twirl before when entering the Prince’s room. Pulling it closed behind you slowly, only a thick _thunk _announcing your arrival.

Just like his older brother Loki was not a morning person. A nest of black hair sticking out from the end of the bed. Walking around the side and a nose was sticking out from the mess of hair covering the rest of his face.

The rest of his face showed as you moved his hair from his face. Slicking it out onto his pillow, coming back to cup his cheek. When he barely flinched from the touch a light thumb nail pressing against his jaw line was applied. Even then he barely gave more an eyebrow knit.

Sleeping like the dead was defined when Loki closed his eyes. Skin cold and never moving when being watched. Sneaking under the covers back as a teenager you came search out for him in the massive landscape that was the bed. After falling deep into sleep the cold would find you, a frozen cheek against your shoulder and arm around your waist. Had his chest not been moving it’d might have been time for a funeral.

He needed to be alive right now, though.

“My prince, Loki,” There was really no point in the harsh whispers you were giving. No one had ever heard through the door before. “Loki, please, wake up.”

A single eye opens. Blinking slowly and then closing again.

“There you are,” He mutters, hand reaching out for whatever part of you was in reach. Taking your wrist first. “Come,” He says, pulling you closer with all the strength a not-awake man has.

“No, I need your help.” Freeing your hands to grab his blankets. Pulling them down along side the sound of both anger and pain coming from your prince. “Please, I can’t get it off.”

It takes Loki several long blinks before he can be anywhere close to coherent. By the time he sits all the way up, you’ve already turned around. Both his hands pressing against the thick fabric to look at the little ribbons, the bane of your existence.

“How much does this dress mean to you?” He asks.

“It will be thrown out after it hits the floor.” You reply.

A tickle traveling from the small of your back to the base of the neck was hard not to wiggle away from. It’s easier to stay still when you compare it to paper being ripped away from a writing pen. Even better when the ink that’s spilled is replaced with blood.

Loki’s knife was almost too sharp to be real. Probably the first time it has ever been used was along the bows of your back. It was really a fidget knife; living it’s life on the side table next to a sharpening stone. Made to be sharpened when sleep took too long to come. You, personally, never heard it being sharpened during your visits. A polite accommodation on Loki’s part, how scary would it be to wake up to a sharpening knife right next to you?

There seems to be less weight and fabric to the dress when it’s not on you. With all ceremony gone it was just a pile of white you had to kick off your feet.

His eyes are still half lidded from the sleep. Ironically looking to the only place clothing still was. White underclothes between your legs and the connected stockings. His hands placing on the top of your thighs, thumb pressing more towards the inside searching for damage.

Just like a coin in your palm his hands became warmer against your skin. Picking at the stocking’s edges like a bandage he wanted to peel away. His long fingers sliding between the skin and fabric, obviously wanting to rip it downward but not wanting to be so bold.

As expected, it’s you who has to make the first move. Tilting his head upwards away from the distracting white cloth, kissing him softly. A few pecks when there was barely a response to the first. Whether it was hesitance, or he simply wasn’t awake yet, Loki eventually got with the program. Mirroring your hands, cupping you face like it will make everything better and right again.

His eyes stayed closed and face stayed attached to yours or close enough that he didn’t get the chance to look down. Hands completely skipping your torso, grasping at the remaining fabric like a desperate man. It would have been easier for you to remove it yourself; stocking knocks were actually able to untie, or they could be slipped down and stepped out of along with the underwear in one motion.

Instead it becomes a binding, and not the fun kind, pulled down just past your backside. Gasping lips that can’t be connected as Loki tries to push it further. Frustration is obvious as he growls deep in his throat, now nipping at your jaw, still trying to keep from looking at his task. Once perfect fabric now stretched from his attempts and stuck wrapped around your knees.

“Wait,” He’s almost bent you backwards trying to reach the clothes. Gasping between kisses for him to ‘wait, wait’ that he either can’t hear or ignores.

It takes a gentle push on his shoulders to get him off, even for a second. He sits back, reluctant to pull his hands away from your face. He eventually does, keeping his hands in an upwards position even after pulling them away.

Hopping from foot to foot the stockings finally slide off. Kicking them away to be found hours later by a maid who knows better then to ask questions.

He lurches forward to grab your face once more. Focused entirely on tracing your features with his lips. Tilting your head side, dragging lips along your jaw and ending with a nip to your chin. Leading back up to a kiss. All the time ignoring your nakedness he seemed so desperate for only a few second ago.

You have search his skin out yourself. Grabbing at the nightdress around his shoulders, gently pressing into his shoulders with a hearty grip. The only warning he’d get that you were on a mission. Pulling on either side, the entire dress made for a specific height but for any weight size. Strings, that weren’t tied very well, pulled apart to open the neck. Revealing collar bones that could cut a rock, a pale shoulder and a quarter of a forearm leading back to the hands cupping your face.

“Arms, put your arms up.” Your second command of the night.

Leaving the fabric on his shoulders. Going straight for that around his hips.

“So, demanding,” He says but complies. Raising his arms just enough. “You’re still not Queen yet, not yet.”

Although a lean man Loki was still made of strength as any of the others. Arm braced around your back, other supporting your head. He spins, fast, so fast it’s the literal term of being swept off your feet. Both your weights hitting the bed like a heavy bag. You couldn’t help but laugh out of both enjoyment and to hide the cough from your chest being pressed into.

When you’ve been with someone for so long it gets easier to tell when they are lying or simply trying to hide something. Although vocally Loki would guarantee his trust in you, guarantee his trust in Thor and that nothing would done between you that wasn’t necessary. This wasn’t the first arranged marriage after all. But still he searched over as much as he loved.

Mouth on your neck, looking for any bite that doesn’t fit his jaw. Firm massages over both breasts, finding no finger prints as he grips. Nipples, still as sensitive as before. A momentary pause to kiss his own thumb, sliding back over the place. Cold standing them up, a pinch and twist when your sounds started to quiet.

Stradling your right leg, it feels like a lifetime before his hands go any further. Still examining your throat, dominate hand massaging your breast and the other going over your left leg. Attention spread over so many parts all he does is leaves hard grips over the top of your thigh.

At no point during his examination were you involved. Just the piece of ancient art he was working to study. Ensuring that no part of you went untouched, any flaws he would know about and add to the mental checklist of your unique profile.

Any attempt you made personally to cover the same ground was met with either no reaction or just wasn’t possible to reach. Pinned by his weight on your side and side the only part of him that could be reached was the hair. Hair that you already knew by heart, pulling or tugging in any direction meant next to nothing as he resisted your silent commands. Sudden surge downwards towards your breasts. A bite, almost real, dinging into your soft skin on the side. All attention gone from your nipple as punishment.

His weight is gone as fast as it had been arrived. Sitting all the way up, panting while looking down. As though he had run miles and didn’t know what to do in this new location.

“I can call one of the maids in, if that’s what you’re waiting for?” You ask. Sweat starting to cool from him being so far away for too long.

“You are wicked,” He says, unsure if he was talking to you or himself.

Moving positions in the heat of the moment isn’t nearly as graceful as imagination might suggest. Having to move around your legs, holding your hips maybe just a bit too hard. Instead of flipping you over by himself, it was more of a physical suggestion. You having to move your own body onto your stomach. His hand pressing your face into the mess of blankets, non-verbally taking credit for the change.

Any hair you had was pushed up and over your head. He was gasping and groaning between open mouth kisses he sounded like a dog who’d gone too long without water.

His grinding against your backside was done out of instinct. Pressing so roughly your face was pressed deeper into the sheets. Turning to try and find some air was only met with hair going through your mouth and eyes. Even though you were spitting out strands of your hair that did nothing to ruin the moment for Loki.

The kisses become biting and that changes the mood. Another thing Loki would never vocally say but he was mad at you. The primal part that came out with this early morning meeting was attached to the hidden anger he knew was unreasonable. He still biting down on your back, digging dull nails into your hips and pulling you up into hands and knees.

Looking over your shoulder and you can’t see his face. His skin made warm from yours was gone, sitting up to line himself. He was still panting through open lips. Finding his goal and finally looking back up to you. Green eyes through a forest of short black hair he hadn’t had time to slick back yet.

For a few seconds he stares back as though he had just been caught doing something. Then he smiles again, a genuine smile that barely shows teeth. It’s gone in a second and he finds his way home in the next.

With the wedding and all eyes on the new bride these meetings had dwindled down to nothing in the past weeks. A few kisses in secret and touches in passing, but nothing that left your mouth hanging open. Knees spreading wide to angle your hips higher.

He takes a second, back and forth, to make the right fit. He was a long man, one that you had to bite down on fabric before the pressure deep inside went away. Even then, if he wasn’t careful, he would accidentally punch deep inside. Forcing out a sound of pain that would shut down the entire affair before either of you got anywhere.

His hips move in shallow thrusts. Hands examining over your back, stopping to circle a freckle or mole decorating your skin, tracing any scars with gentle touches. Leaning forward his bites were back, scrapping teeth along the skin. Trying to make any sort of impression.

Completely pressed into the mattress there was little to be done on your side. Hands sliding down the side of your body, between your legs and to the pearl between them. Middle finger just above, sliding over it’s hood in the same rhythm Loki was keeping with his thrusts.

It was a balancing act when the tune changed to a faster tempo. Your arm having to brace against the bed just below your chest. Other hand still at work, barely grazing it’s target as you were moved. Hips lifted back into position, had he any other focus then being fast and keeping on target your hair would have been grabbed. Pulled up right to make your back flat, silently establish his dominance through the rough act. 

There it is, the unforgiving grip on the braids that were still holding strong. Head pulled back with a sound of pain that wouldn’t stop the session. Both your hands having to step up, press down on the bed to stay taunt, keep your head up and looking straight forward.

“I have you,” He’s grunting into your neck, mouth full of hair and skin covered in sweat. “My dear, I have you. Every. Time.” The last two words are punctuated with hard thrusts.

Hand in your hair, other around your middle. You were so close together his hips could only move in shallow thrusts. Back to the start, slowing and coming to a full stop. He could try hiding sounds, wouldn’t be his first attempt, but it wouldn’t change anything. Biting into fabric and skin can only muffle his exasperated gasp so much. Wet breath spreading over your shoulder blades and scrapping teeth over your neck.

A lean man he was, a heavy man he was too. Entire tired weight pressing down on your worn-out body. Using whatever strength, he had to turn you both over, now properly laying length wise on the bed. Laying there in worn out bliss, trapped by sweaty arms you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

Although your examination was done, he continued to wander your body. Gently thumbing the closer breast. Pinching and tugging the nipple until your reaction gave. A groan, pressing your face into the pillow. Something he mocked by placing his own face against yours, kissing your cheek with a mock kissy noise.

The working hand found it’s way downward. Sliding over lips, asking for permission to be let in.

Permission is granted with the slightest lift of your knee, hips turning towards him, enough that his kisses reach the edge of your lips. Your other lips spread open by two fingers, sliding over and gently squeezing your clit. Slipping further, inside of you, gently spreading through his own mess he had left behind.

“Bath, we both need a bath.” You whisper, trying to cover the sound below you.

“Not yet,” He says, nuzzling nose under your jaw.

Two fingers spread and slide back up. Quick rubbing up and down before teasing at your hood. Pressure just above with the same amount going downwards, back down and open in a cycle that speeds in every pass he makes.

More then once Loki joked about how frustrating your lack of skirts were. Other ladies were so much easier. Corner them in a garden, or a secluded isle in the library. Sliding skirts up and over a point and there you are. Pants were harder, pants usually needed a flat surface. They were harder to be pulled back up when caught.

This was one of the few chances Loki had to reach his woman. Sliding past and over your clit, listening for your hitching voice for what to do next. Small quick circle sending you arching backwards into him are of most interest.

“Faster, lower, lower.” It’s coming out without you ever meaning to. Besides your prince who else knew your body better than you?

Faster movements just below the clit moved your legs on their own. Quivering, like they were trying to close. Starting like a pressure behind your pelvis, slowly spreading through bones into your toes, into your nipples. Loki’s stupid smile pressing into your cheeks when it finally hits. Any noise made hopefully muffled by the bedroom door and your own restraint.

Sheets in the palace are all washed in the slightest bit of perfume. Flowers and trees put into ever strand of the sheets. The only way to know them is to either truly focus or be distracted and taken away by their smell. Now the hint, however small, was completely gone. Replaced with musk and sweat. Your own morning after drinking breathe combined until they could no longer be ignored.

If Loki were a cruel man, he’d insist on skipping the bath. That you walk back to the rooms in a torn wedding dress, coming from the opposite direction of your husband. And if you were a cruel woman you would have done it. Neither of you were that rude, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever start a project and it doesn't come out the way you wanted it to?


End file.
